


The elusive Black Tulip

by narumila



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale performs unconscious miracles, M/M, Plants, historicial figures, melancholic demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-23 12:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20243029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narumila/pseuds/narumila
Summary: How Crowley and Aziraphale found the most elusive variant of tulips of the 17th century tulip mania by accident and ignorance.





	The elusive Black Tulip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asideofourown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asideofourown/gifts).

> This was written for asideofourown for the Good Omens Fanwork Exchange August 2019
> 
> Prompt:  
Aziraphale and Crowley have known each other for over 6,000 years- describe/depict a "missing moment" in history between them (it can really be anything!)

Amsterdam 1609

“The man with the dark glasses?”  
Crowley nodded slightly.  
“Do I hear 800? Anybody 800?”  
The auctioneer looked around the room. The other bidders frowned and his only competitor that had bid up to 780 gulden shook his head.  
“The three Admiraal van Engehls go to our esteemed guest then. The next lot are Duc van Tol. Do I hear 300?”  
Crowley decided that he would not press his luck any further. He was very much aware that his persistence had probably ruined his relationship with the some of the merchants in the crowd. But there were usually enough traders around Amsterdam that were perfectly willing to ship to England. But finding someone reliable was always a nuisance. Perhaps Charles had a few new contacts for him. He would just make a quick stop in Leiden. He had not seen his friend for a few years and the prospect of a quick detour delighted him. After all it had been Clusius who had introduced him to these marvellous flowers. Crowley had seen the original tulips in their wild state in the hills of what was nowadays called the Ottoman empire. They were pretty little things, colourful little spots of joy on the green hills in spring. But the humans had cultivated them in their gardens and managed to produce new varieties of colour and an explosion of forms that brightly outshone their modest ancestors. The dutch had become especially enamored with the bulbs that bore the promise of beauty and riches within their brown layers.

Leiden 1609

"Oh, Crowley! such a pleasure to see you! your letter Just arrived. I'm sorry but traveling quicker than the mail means I have to take you to the gardens first."  
the agile old man grinned at the demon on his doorstep. He was clad in practical clothes, not exactly what was expected from a Dutch nobleman. He exuded an air of practicality and the words "down to earth" quickly sprang to mind while looking at him. Crowley's was overcome with genuine joy. "Dear Charles! I hope my visit on such short notice is not inconvenient to you?"  
"Nonsense, old chap! You have always a place here. Especially if you could lend me a hand in the garden. Those young boys are no use at all."  
Just a short while later Clusius and Crowley were inspecting a new part of the botanical garden.  
"These here are something special. Augusta Semper. Have you seen them yet?"  
“No, I've heard about them, naturally. But I've only ever seen drawings. These are the red and white broken ones you've been writing about?”  
“Yes these are my special bulbs. They are of utmost beauty and as always utmost fragile.”  
“Let me guess the only one allowed near them is nobody?”  
“Not nobody. I am perfectly allowed to tend to them. And as long as you're here so are you. Unlike those stupid boys you are capable of patience and tenderness. I do not know how to teach those virtues to the young ones. Last spring one of them cut down three Admiral tulips for his girlfriend. If the stupid boy had asked I'd have given him some to take home. But no, he cut down the ones that were meant for the Duchess of Leuven who wanted to see them the next day.”  
Crowley's sly grin turned into laughter: “Oh Charles! Whatever did you do then?”  
“I offered him up as collateral along with the cut tulips and three additional bulbs. You can imagaine the lady was not pleased at all. But she is a shrewd negogiator. In the end we agreed on one Augusta Semper as an addition to the original bulbs.”  
“And the boy? Did you really foist him onto her? I hope he's at least pretty then?”  
“No, she wasn't interested. His father had to pay for the Lady's Augusta. And he withdrew the boy from the university. I believe he's been sent east with the West India Trading Company. I assume he'll be busy paying off his debts for the foreseeable future.”  
“That doesn't sound too bad. Perhaps the fool finds some worthwhile plants in the east.”  
“If he does, I do hope that he won't just bring them home wilted and cut then.”  
The old man and the red haired demon continued on their little tour throughout the garden. Hardly anything was in bloom yet but the luscious green everywhere carried the promise of a imminent explosion of flowers and bright colours.

*******************************************************

“Here take these dear friend.”  
Crowley took the little oiled canvas bag and reverently clutched it close to his chest.  
“Thank you, Charles. I shall treasure these beautiful little wonders.”  
“I thought you’d prefer them to anything else I could give you. But be careful. They need to be kept dry otherwise they’ll rot before you have a chance to plant them.”  
“I shall send them to a friend for safe keeping. I wouldn’t want to lose them on my journey.”  
“Yes, I’m not sure a pilgrimage to Rome would do them any good. Those papists might douse them in holy water.”  
The demon chuckled.  
“I shall miss you and your witt on the road ahead. If I run into something special I’ll send you a specimen.”  
The man with the golden eyes embraced his old friend, reminding him to greet his children and grandchildren before he took his leave.

*********************************************************

He should have left for Rome a day before yesterday. But he was still strolling through the lovely garden he had not had a chance to say goodbye to yet. He was a demon after all. If need be he could simply turn into a speck of wind and travel to the place he was supposed to be in an instant. Crowley had been given a mission from down below. Besides the usual chaos and dissent he was to create he was told to have a word with the current pope. Crowley was not sure what exactly they needed him for. The reformation had torn not only the church apart but the hole of Europe was warring with each other once more. He was not sure whether they had ever stopped. In a way he was astonished that they had created a complicated civilization while constantly being preoccupied with killing each other. But then there were always enough people around to kill and be killed. Leaving the rest with enough free time to struggle with not only survival but the creation of atr, music and trying to make a better life not only for themselves but for their fellow humans. Crowley took immense pleasure in watching humans succeed and apply themselves. What for had Eve took the apple from the tree of knowledge if not to do something with it. To strive for something.To strive for knowledge and its application.  
Dear old Charles was one of favourite human beings. He had travelled all over the continent during his 80 years on earth. He had made friends with other horticulturists and botanists sharing his knowledge widely. He had taught at the university here in Leiden and published many books. But his time was nearing its end. Crowley could sense it. It always left him with a great feeling of melancholy when he knew that he would never get to see a friend again. No more discussions about the classifications of plants, no more tulips exchanged. The fact that Clusius had entrusted him with a variety of his favourite bulbs had filled him with equal parts joy and dread. Joy that he would have something tangible to connect him to his friend. Dread because they would not get to enjoy the blooming tulips together as they had so many times before. It was always a moment of awe and surprise when the first started to rear their heads in the spring. Would the Petals be fractured and broken as was the dutch fashion? Where they feathered like parrot’s feathers like the seller had promised? Over the years Clusius had found wondrous plants and Crowley had spent many an hour marvelling at his garden.  
Back at the inn he took the two books he had bought for Aziraphale. He had hunted down a copy of each part of Don Quixote and after a few tries he had managed to snag two copies of their respective first print editions one even signed by the author. Aziraphale had not asked him directly for the books but the sighing: “I just can’t seem to get my hands on the original version.” had driven Crowley mad. As much as he liked books and the knowledge and the stories contained within, he simply did not share Aziraphale’s obsession with first editions. The angel’s favourite books were bound in leather, occasionally emblazoned with gemstones and as much as he had rejoiced over the advent of the printing press he had yet to stop bemoaning the lack of individuality and the hastening of the process. Though a quick reminder that he now could read a book without having a monk copying each and every word for months or even years usually shut the Angel up quickly.  
Crowley quickly tore off a piece of an old letter and wrote a short note:

“Aziraphale,  
Please store the bulbs in a dry and cool place for me, where the rats and other vermin can’t get at them. Speaking to Pope Paul V two days from now. Anything you wish to convey?  
C.”

He tucked the note into the first part of Don Quixote, bound the two books and the canvas bag together with a bit of string and concentrated for the package to relocate to a London townhouse. Then he took his belongings with him and vanished himself. When he re-appeared he found himself in a small forest overlooking the unmistakable view of the city on the seven hills rising in front of him. With a heavy sigh he stepped out onto the old roman street.

London 1609

“Thud” Aziraphale startled as the package appeared mid air and after a moment of uncertainty fell down on the floor. The tablecloth on the wooden table a few inches to its left softly billowed in the sudden breeze of air. The angel picked up the mysterious package with a small smile on his face. Just as he was about to undo the string he heard another sound. It was unmistakable the sound of something big and heavy appearing out of nothingness.Crowley would have had the decency to knock so it would have to be another supernatural creature. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t Gabriel again. The arc angel was always a major source of unnecessary drama and a visit usually ended with Aziraphale having to go somewhere unpleasant doing something that in the end would have little to no effect in the grand scheme of things. With a beleaguered sigh he put the package out of sight.  
The Angel squared his shoulders and accepting the inevitable made his way to where he heard someone shuffling about his house. As he opened the door to the dining room he was greeted with a view of all encompassing white.  
“Hello?”  
“Aziraphale? Angel of the Eastern Gate?”  
A familiar voice. So not Gabriel then but Michael. Not exactly better in Aziraphale’s books but not worse either.  
“Dear Michael! If I may be so bold. If you could just shift your wings onto another plane? I’m afraid humans do not design their architecture with wings in mind.”  
“Always such a nuisance coming down here.”  
The angel’s wings disappeared and a blonde woman her face adorned with specks of gold stood in the room.  
“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Would you -”  
“I won’t be long. I don’t know how you can stand existing like this. It feels so... utterly wrong.” She frowned, her beautiful eyebrows drawn together.  
“You’re supposed to speak to a few cardinals in Rome. And the Pope. Especially the Pope. After all the upheaval of the reformation we want a united front. They shall stop being obstinate little children grasping for power.There is no use in a pope that only reigns for a few months. The church needs stability above all. And that means a successor is to be in place for the next time.”  
“Do we have anybody in mind?"  
"Yes, Alessandro Ludovisi. Make sure that his position is strengthened. We don't want him t0 come completely out of left field.”  
“Alessandro Ludovisi. Anything else?"  
“Besides spreading the joy of God and manifesting good will. No nothing out of the ordinary.”  
“Then I wish you-” before he could finish his goodbye the angel had disappeared again with another thud. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and made his way back to the hastily discarded package. If he had to leave for Rome he might as well take a good book with him to read. Or two. Or three. Or maybe half a dozen just to be on the safe side.

Not far from the eternal city 1609

In a little forest not far from Rome for the second time of the day a squirrel was scared witless. Another man shaped being had again suddenly appeared underneath its favourite tree. The squirrel decided that a rich acorn supply in the fall and heavy foliage alone were not enough reasons to stay any longer. There were enough oak trees in the forest that had no strange creatures appearing out of the blue. After the figure had stepped out onto the road it jumped to the next tree and vanished deep into the forest.  
The angel below oblivious to the plight of the squirrel above was currently occupied with orienting himself. Just a bit further down the road should be a little inn before he entered the city proper. There he could write a few letters to friends and acquaintances and with a bit of luck he might even find a friend there. At least this time he would not have to ride on horseback. Italy with its old roman roads was way more amiable to carriages and coaches than say Scotland for example.

*********************************************

"Do you happen to have a free bed for the night?"  
Crowley was sitting next to the fireplace soaking in the warmth that the fire radiated. He looked up from his book in surprise as he heard the all too familiar voice. He had expected a short note from Aziraphale but not the angel himself. While the blonde man discussed his stay for the night with the innkeeper the demon walked over to greet his friend.  
“Fancy seeing you here!”  
“Ah, hello my dear! I thought I might find you here.” Aziraphale smiled brightly at him.  
"Any particular reason for you being here?." Crowley sported his usualy sly grin. "Or was England getting frettfully boring without me?" The demon stepped closer, taking the angel by the arm and directed him to his table by the fire.  
"Well, I'd have liked a spot of boredom very much, but alas Michael showed up." Aziraphale frowned as he told his friend about the unexpected visitor from heaven.  
"I've been told to remind the vatican of its responsibilities as the representatives of above and to make sure that one Alessandro Ludovisi is in a certain position."  
"That wouldn't be the positon of a cardinal ready to step up when Paul V shuffles off this mortal coil?" Crowley tilted his head while watching Aziraphale's annoyed expression. The angel sighed and murmured: "I could have just stayed at home and read a ...", he caught himself just in time before the swear escaped his lips, "a good book."  
"Yes indeed" Crowley laughed "and I could've stayed in Leiden spending time with Clusius and his marvellous garden. Did you get my package? Or did Michael shoo you off before ..."  
"Oh, where are my manners! Yes, yes, I got it. The very second before the arc achangel graced me with his presence" Aziraphale's voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
"I was rather glad to have immediate reading material available. But you must tell me, where did you find those extraordinary copies? You didn't..."  
Crowley interrupted him. "No I didn't. A friend of a friend knew somebody who knew somebody whose rich uncle could not read but liked to display his intellectual prowess. His much more sensible nephew decided money was more useful than a bunch of books he'd never read."  
"A whole collection you say? Could you, perhaps, give me the adress of said nephew?" The angel's eyeys had lit up at the mention of the book collection. Curiosity foremost and maybe a hint of obsession and even greed, flickered across the usually open face.  
"You are a master of subtlety. I looked through the whole collection and those two were only two you'd be interested in."  
"Are you quite sure? Just give me his name and adress and I'll pop there and back before you know I'm gone."  
"Well of course if you don't trust me." The demon's voice sounded mostly bored but there was a hardly noticeable edge to his tone.  
The angel seeing his objective thwarted treid to smooth things over instantly before the other could change the subject: "Of course I do, my dear, of course. But perhaps you've overlooked something. Maybe an author neither of us has heard of or something the nephew didn't think to show you."  
"Angel, I am familiar with your collection." Crowley paused for dramatic effect. "I am also familiar with your taste in books. There was nothing of any interest for you whatsoever. Someone had pulled a fast one on the old coger. The dozen leather bound ones were all misprints, cobbled together from various books. And among the cheaper clothbound ones was not a single one you do not already own. But be my guest. If you think it's worth getting into trouble over. The books were in Haarlem. The young man runs a fishshop down by the Marketplein."  
The angel declined the offer with a handgesture. "I believe you. I assume I might have a better chance to find something new in Rome."  
"Yes, I'm afraid, we'll have plenty of time to spend in the _holy_ city." Crowley sighed.  
"But let me thank you again for Cervantes. I've spent ages looking for these editions. What would you like to drink my dear? They used to have a decent red housewine?" Aziraphale got up and gestured toward a counter adorned with caraffes and ceramic goblets.  
"That was a few decades ago, angel. But yes, let's see. A good red would definitley ease the suffering for our noble cause."  
"_Our? nobel _cause?" Aziraphale had to laugh.  
"Well, making sure the next pope is blessed by up and below of course! May he bring balance and peace to a world in tumult and chaos!" Crowley's expertly rendered expression of innocent pathos would have stirred envy in every stage actor as he tried hard not to crack up at his own words.  
Aziraphale merely looked at him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Then he went to fetch a caraffe and two goblets that contained miracoulusly the very same wine he and Crowley had been drinking at the inn for centuries.

Rome 1609

"I think we should divide the most important people between us for this Ludovisi thing. There's really no point in both of us showing up and putting on a parade for that guy." Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting in a niche in the grand park of Cardinal Gaspar Borghia. From a distance they were indistinguishabel from the other guests. Both wore the black of the clergy. Though Aziraphale's robe were slightly faded sugesting years of wear and tear, Crowley's shone in a dark black that was reminiscent of a raven's brilliant black feathers.   
"Well, but if we both beat the drum for him don't you think that might be more persuasive? Strength in numbers and all that?" Aziraphale replied thoughtful.  
"Really? You wnat to talk to all of them individually? We'll be here till kingdom come!"  
"No, I think we still got a few centuries left before that comes."  
"A figure of speech angel, a figure of speech." Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale. Even his dark shades could not hide his exasperation. "What I meant, originally meant, was that we make a nice little list of the important people. We don't have to talk to anybody who never comes to a conclave. No use in that. ANd we can just see who's more say, inclined, to listen to one of us. Take our host for example. Do you wish to talk to a Borghia, angel? Do you?"  
"Well, they are all God's children -" Aziraphale was interrupted by an impatient Crowley:  
"So is Beelzebub Lord of the Flies. Do you wish to talk to zhe? Spread the gospel and a message of love and forgiveness?"  
Aziraphale sighed wearily. "Let me finish, will you? I'll talk to Borghia. His father was a correspondent of mine and he, the current cardinal that is has sent me a few books over the last year. So we already have an established rapport as a starting point for further... conversations."  
The demon was shortly taken aback. He blinked surprised at the angel next to him. " You've been corresponding with the Borghias? Do I have to watch my drink and food around you now?"  
"What-. No we've talked about spiritual matters."  
"Spiritual matters with a Borghia?" The sceptiscism was palpable in Crowley's voice.  
"And the odd book. On philosophy. Mathematics. Botany. He sent me a few recipies from his cook."  
"Well in that case I'll leave the Borghias to you. Maybe you can bribe him with a stew recipe. Or a vial of poison. Though his family probably had him educated in that particular aspect of botany."   
"Very funny."  
"Well take a look at the flowerbed in front of you. Do you notice something?"  
Aziraphale's eyes followed the outstretched hand. Atropa Belladonna was planted on the rim of the flower beds. Lily of the valley and Wolfsbane mingled therein. The demon might have a point after all.  
"What about the tulips over there?"  
"I would not recommend eating those either. They're not as toxic as the Aconitum but eat them long enough and you'll need a new body."  
Aziraphale sighed and retrieved a piece of paper from the depts of his robe.  
"So I'll take Borghia. What about Bellarmine?"  
"I'm not talking to Bellarmine!" Crowley's expression had soured at the thought of mollifying the beaureaucrat.  
"Fine, that one's on my list. Baronius?"  
They continued long into the afternoon debating on who had more sway with different clergy members and how to approach especially delicate candidates.

After they had finally finished the business aspect of their meeting Aziraphale offered: "What about supper? Do you have any engagements this evening?"  
"No, I'm free. It's a shame Patronius's closed down."  
"Well it's been more than half a century since we've last been there. Also, I believe they changed the name a millenium ago?"  
Crowley laughed wistfully. "Yes, everything changes even in the eternal city. Let's just go to a taverna at the tiber bank. There's always someone there selling a decent red and something to eat."  
"That sounds like a plan. Do you want to go somewhere quiet?"  
"Yes, quiet's good. We'll get swept up in the madness soon enough."  
As the two figures got up from their bench amid the high hedges the sun had started to set in the west. The colourful sunset was framed perfectly between two cypress trees and they stood still admiring the effect of the artfully arranged garden in combination with the raw magnificence of the sunset.  
"Charles would have loved to rearrange the flowerbeds. The symmetry is slightly off." Crowley's voice was soft and quiet.  
"Yes, he'd have a field day." Only a second later Aziraphale realised that the demon had referred to his close friend in past tense. "Is there something I have missed, my dear?" He turned towards his friend searching his face for an answer to his question.  
"I just got a letter from his son today. A few days after I left for Rome they had found him. He had been tending to the roses."  
"I'm so sorry my dear." The angel placed a hand on the demon's elbow in a gesture of comfort. Much to his surprise Crolwey neither flinched nor turned away. He merely stood there, watching the sun set.  
"He had given me a selection of his bulbs, you know? We both knew that he was close to the end."  
"My dear boy."  
"Why do they always fade away so quickly?"  
"They call it the human gift."  
Crowley laughed bitterly. "What a gracious gift that is. I feel like we've had this conversation so often over the centuries. And somehow it never gets easier."  
"If it got easier, it meant something was wrong with us."  
"I'll plant the last bulbs someplace special when we're home."  
"I'd like to see them bloom someday. If I may."  
"Yes. Yes, that would be nice. Charles would like that." with a heavy sigh, Crowley turned towards Aziraphale and in a rare gesture offered him his arm. Aziraphale accepted and they turned their back on the setting sun. They headed for a small exit to the side walking along the flowerbed that housed the tulips. The Blossoms had closed for the night but there was something off about them. The two black clad figures walked past them not noticing that the colour of the petals had changed. In the afternoon the broken tulips displayed a mix of yellow and white. Now the yellow streaks had turned as black as the night. They had neither withered nor wilted but the once colourful arrangement had turned into a memorial befitting the famous botanist on the mind of the two mystical beings.

************************************************************

The next morning the Cardinal took a stroll through the garden with his house guest. A young man from the Netherlands who had been trained at the University in Leiden by Charles Clusius himself. Borghia had taken a liking to the boy. He was quick witted and had promised him access to the exclusive tulips of his former master. He had even brought a sample of a Augusta Semper plant to win his favour.  
"And in the next flower bed is a small selection that was given to me by the Dutch ambassador. I assume you are familiar with-" The cardinal stopped mid sentence. What had yesterday been a brightly coloured flowerbed with the colours of the church, yellow and white, had turned into a stark display of, was it grief that he felt looking at the tulips?  
"I'm very sorry your Exellency. But these are no Admiral van Meeren tulips. Those would be yellow broken ones."  
The Cardinal turned to his young companion. "I fear these carry some sickness in them. Just yesterday they bloomed in yellow and white. I'm afraid we'll have to pull them up before they spread whatever miasma has caused this!"  
The young man leaned down, taking a closer look at the flowers. The petals were intact. He gingerly toucheda blossom and looked at other signs of disease. The stem seemed perfectly fine and he could detect no signs of decay or parasites. But the black strokes. As if someone had painted them with dark ink for a mourning banquet. He made a decision. If the cardinal wanted to get rid of them he'd take them gladly off his hands. There were people in the Netherlands that would gladly pay a fortune for such a flower. And maybe if he kept three of them for himself. Who knew? Maybe he would even be able to cultivate a competely back flower? That particular goal of horticulture had so far even escaped his former master in Leiden. But if he brought those to the old man surely that would be a starting point for a renewed partnership even?

Leiden 1609

The young man had returned home only to find his masterful plan starting to shatter before he could even put it into motion. At the residence of Clusius he was told that the grandmaster of botany had died months ago and that he was very much not welcome there, did he not remember the disgrace in which he had left? He was left to his own devices trying to come up with a new plan. Perhaps one of his father's many business partners would be a suitable compagnion for his venture? He desperately needed money if he was to pursue the creation of a dark tulip. He needed space and above all a roof and food ever since his father had cut him off. He decided to test his luck with Merchant De Vries. He and his father were no longer on speaking terms so he would be safe from the ire of the old man for a while. Whatsmore his daughter Betje had a considerable tulip collection that she had grown since she had been ten years old. Surely De Vries would be a suitable business partner for this venture.

Amsterdam 1637

"Why did you have to bring these bloody bulbs home?!? They have brought nothing but misery into this house!"  
"How did you think I was paying for all this, Betje? This house, your new fine cloth…”  
"I told you they are unlucky! Why could you not just tinker with the red ones?! Maybe we'd still have some money left then!"

Aziraphale passed underneath the balcony trying his best to tune out the loud voices above. The whole Dutch country was ablaze with such arguments and assertions of blame and stupidity. The whole house of cards had come tumbling down. After the tulip bulbs had started to ever rise in price people had begun to no longer trade just the tangible bulbs themselves but traded in not even yet planted bulbs. It was the mere possibility of a potential flower they had started to sell and buy.  
Aziraphale felt awful. The mess of human emotions, anger, hurt, hate and desperation swept over him. He had to get to someplace else. He had to get home to England. He was used to the low level misery that permeated London at all times and he tried his best to make life better for the ones around him, a never ending challenge. But on a scale like this he was, no not useless exactly, but what he could offer resembled a band aid in the face of a severed artery.  
Aziraphale took a quick step back. A canvas sack had landed right in front of him. He looked up. “Excuse me? Madam? You dropped…?”  
His polite remark was interrupted by the angry man: “They’re all worthless now. Take ‘em or leave ‘em doesn’t matter anymore.”  
The angel bent down. Oh yes tulip bulbs. He wondered how many more were being thrown out since their monetary value had disappeared. Aziraphale picked them up and took them with him. He had seen some of the street kids trying to eat the bulbs but he knew that they were poisonous and if he could at least make sure that none of the urchins would die because of this particular sack he would do so. A very small action in the grand scheme of things but he needed to do some good deed in the face of all that misery. He contemplated whether there was something he could do for the couple above but decided against it. He felt so utterly drained. He had to find a ship that would get him back to England. He was not quite sure whether he could miracle himself back to England the way his head spinned.

London 1637

After the tumultuous trip back to England Aziraphale had taken to his favourite place by the fire. There he had burrowed himself into his favourite books and tried to find solace among the pages. He felt utterly drained. The maelstrom of misery and discord in the Netherlands had been relentless.The short voyage by sea had been so unpleasant that Aziraphale had merely sat down on a wooden crate and escaped into meditation. What had been good for the celestial part of his being had only further weakened his physical aspect. After they had set foot on shore again he had to take a carriage back to London while recuperating.  
When the angel finally felt ready to take on the world again or at least to get up and take a look at what was to be found in the kitchen cupboards three days had passed.  
After he had prepared himself a cup of tea, a new fangled habit he had picked up on the continent from a portuguese acquaintance, he stopped in his tracks. He had not traveled back home empty handed. In his luggage were several rare books he had yet to add to his collection. A small smile appeared on his face. Finding a new place for the little treasures was one of his favourite past times. He had over the years settled on a very personal shelving method. He did not merely order the scriptures, folios and even many a precious ancient scroll merely by title or author. No Aziraphale’s method of cataloguing was way more idiosyncratic. He grouped his treasures by the emotions and feelings they evoked. He considered this way of storing them much more useful. If he wanted to read something with a melancholic undertone or a work sparking sheer joy he knew exactly where to find it.   
As he opened the crate he found the sack of tulip bulbs he had picked up in Amsterdam. He could still feel the emotions of the former owners reverberating in the cloth. After a moments hesitation he opened it up and found a dozen small brown bulbs inside. Two of them had started to mold and he decided that he would plant the others in his backgarden. The ten tulips felt dormant in his hand but a little spark of the divine and something else was pulsing just at the edge of his perception. He looked forward to what little wonders would spring forth from his garden in the next spring.

London 1638

Crowley had been back in England for a few days. Rome had been exhausting. The vatican had always been a hotbed of sin and piety populated by power driven egomaniacs. But Crowley could not shake the feeling that humans would become ever more inventive in their methods of cruelty against one another. Why down below thought his attendance had been required over the past years eluded him. The machinations and conspiracies that engulfed Rome were more delicate and yet stronger than spider’s silk. And like a spider’s web you had to be careful not to tug at a strand that would turn you into someone’s prey. He had been discorporated before by a man of the cloth. Ironically that one hadnot been hunting fro demons like the Inquisition did. He still shuddered at the thought of the misery and cruelty that particular branch of the church had spread through Europe. And he had been commended for it. As if he could ever dream up such a nightmare. No those were human ideas far beyond his reach. Back then Crowley had simply been in favour of somebody else’s promotion to the rank of bishop and his rival had decided that Crowley's dead body was an ideal stepping stone for him. Since then Crowley had felt hardly anything but contempt for the clergy with their veiled hunger for power hidden behind piety and bigotry.  
His last stop before he was done with the assignement had been at the Parisian court. Cardinal Richelieu was somebody one could not simply ignore and hope for the best. He considered the cardinal another of the catholic churches' many prime examples of man willing to step over a thousand dead bodies in exchange for an ounce of power. Even the grand garden where he met with the french man had done little to calm his nerves. The only good thing out of all this had been the books Richelieu had given him for Aziraphale. He was always astonished how many of the angel's fellow bibliophiles and correspondents were among his least liked power brokers of europe.

After having slept for two while weeks the demon felt significantly more at ease with the thought of dealing with the outside world again. He was not exactly in good spirits but decided that since sleep had started to lose its luster he might as well go and see if he could annoy Aziraphale. He took one look at the heavy chest with the books from France and decided that a short demonic intervention was in order. He snapped his fingers and the crate disappeared only to reappear on the doorstep of a London townhouse. He considered that ample enough warning for Aziraphale and walked over to the angel's house.  
A soft breeze ruffeled his hair, bringing with it the promise of warmth and the renewal of spring. The first early bloomers had appeared in the gardens and painted the drab city with little spots of clour. Crowley was glad he had decided against simply teleporting from place to place. He had needed some fresh air and a reminder that the gloom of winter would soon be forgotten for a few glorious months.  
  
At Aziraphale's place he found the door wide open and the crate was no longer where he had sent it. He considered that invitation enough and stepped into the house. Upstairs he heard the unmistakeble sound of ladder shufeled along a book shelf. Smiling he made his way upstairs to find his friend balancing on the top step of his sliding ladder attempting to reach a shelf opposite from him.  
"If you tell me where you want it, I can just put it there, you know?"  
"Oh, Crowley you're back! Just give me a minute and I'll -"  
"Seriuosly angel, just miracle it there. Wouldn't do anybody any good if you broke your pretty neck now would it?"  
With a huff the angel leaned forward a little more and finally put the book in its designated spot. Triumphantly he turned and smiled down at Crowley.  
"Doesn't always need a miracle -" before he could finish his sentence he lost his balance and found himself suspended mid air.  
"You were saying?" The dry remark was accompanied by a small gesture and the angel felt himself softly floating downwards.  
"Ah, well. If you handn't-." Aziraphale thought better of it. "Anyway. It is very nice to see you my dear! Have you been home long?"  
"I don't know. Couple of weeks maybe? Slept right through. Did I miss anything important?"  
"No, not really. But thank you for the books. The cardinal was most kind to gift me so many. Though he does seem to be somewhat obsessed with this playwright. Pierre Corneille. Have you seen a performance of his by any chance?" The angel had taken the lead downstairs.  
"Yes, I've seen "Le Cid". I believe he gave you a copy. Let me know what you think of it. Though I think you will find that the good Cardinal is no longer Corneille's patron. Maybe he thought you might apreciate the boy's work more than he did."  
"Or the old bat wanted to get rid of something he considers a bad investment now" Aziraphale gestured towards the kitchen table. "Do sit down."  
"Since when are you so full of sarcasm angel?"  
"I've lived in Rome for almost two decades. I'm always afraid I'll lose the white in my wings if I stay too close to the high ranking clergy.The holy see is inundated with sycophants and bigots. Anyway would you like some tea?"  
"Tea? How did you get tea here?"  
"Oh there's a shop in London now. Not exactly cheap but then what is these days?"  
"Yes, I'd like a cup. I've only ever had it at the old portuguese man's house. It smelled somewhat bitter didn't it?"  
"Oh, that's just a question of brewing it properly. You see, you have to let it steep for only a little while, till the colour is a mellow gold tone. Just like your eyes. If you let it sit for too long it'll turn bitter and dark."  
The demon raised his eyebrow. "Seems you have mastered the art of tea then. Anything else you've been up to?"  
"Nothing much really. Although there was one thing I wanted to show you. On my way back I traveled through Amsterdam. And I-. Oh just let me show you." The angel got up from his chair and motioned for Crowley to follow him. The demon got up, his interest picqued by the angel's vague hints. The two made their way to the backdoor and into the little garden.  
"There, I found these literally on the street." he pointed at a row of tulips. Their petals were of the simple variety. Not feathered and a solitary coulour not broken into mosaics like the most famous dutch tulips. But their simple colour rendered the demon next to Aziraphale speechless. It was a deep and rich purple almost indistinguishable from black. The two mystical beings were probably the only people in London who could see that the flowers were not a hundred percent black.  
"Whereever did you find those?", the demon was clearly taken aback. He looked questioningly at his friend. "I have never seen black tulips. There were rumours but they all proved to be nothing but gossip. I never thought I'd see a single black tulip. And you have. You have ten plants?" Crowley went donw on his knees, streching out his hand before he drew back. "These are real tulips? You didnt just miracle them into existence?"  
The angel smiled down at him. "No, these have nothing to do with me. Touch them and you can feel it. There's the divine spark and then there's something a bit more quiet. More in the background." The demon obliged and softly as if not to startle the plant touched a leaf. "Yes, there's something. It feels. Human? Like a piece of soul almost."  
"Yes, I think they have tinkered with them for so long now, that the human's have left their mark on these plants. I'd never thought they could become something as marvelous as that." Aziraphale paused for a moment and sat down besides the kneeling demon. I found them laying on the streets in Amsterdam. Somebody had thrown them out while cursing at them and everyboy else in earshot. I could not tell you who created them or if there are anymore. I'm sorry. Perhaps, perhaps Charles would know? Oh, no. I'm sorry. I forgot."  
"Yes, Charles would have known for sure. He always kept a close eye on his fellow gardeners. Though I wonder wether those might not be descended from some of his experiments." The demon smiled in reminiscence. "It would be so much like good old Charles to have stashed them away somewhere and waiting for just the right moment to present his triumph to the world." The two looked thoughtfully at the flowers in front of them. Aziraphale broke the silence: "You sent me a few of his last bulbs. They're in the kitchen cup board. I put them in a little pocket of celestial stillness so they should be all right."  
Crowley thought for a second before he said: "Will you keep them a little longer for me please? I'd like to rearrange the garden or maybe the whole flat. Maybe put a new garden on the roof? I don't want them to get lost in the shuffle."  
"Of course my dear. Of course. What do you think about having the tea on the terrace?" Crowley nodded in silent agreement. He was still mesmerized by the dark flowers. Contemplating how much depth of soil a tulip needed. Perhaps he could just turn the roof terrace on his mayfair flat into a little garden akin to the grand tulip garden in Leiden. As good a place as any for his outdoor plants to remember a man who had loved them just as much as he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I used some real historical figures and events as references but with quite a lot creative liberty. I also shifted the timeline a bit around. (Hamlet was first staged in 1609, but I only figured that out after I was hell bent on including Clusius who died in April of the same year. Maybe the Doctor took Crowley and Aziraphale on a trip back to see it or they borrowed Hermione's time device, whatever headcannon works for you, dear reader, best.)
> 
> There's also a (propbably apocryphal) story floating around that someone managed to grow black (rather a very dark shade of aubergine) tulips during the tulip mania in the Netherlands. According to legend tulip merchants bought the horticultist's whole stock and destroyed them, fearing that those might otherwise render their own investments worthless.


End file.
